Listening to Beethoven

Listening to Beethoven

A young man presses the keys,
lightly steps a brass pedal,
and movement changes minutes to sunbeams
thrumming, moving, dancing lightly
like air over a cool mountain brook.
Carillon bells peal prayers of grotto monks.
Little bells ripple on a lake.
The smallest bells press tiny feet in soft grasses,
sweet blond hair flowing after.
Pulses race between flower petals
as soaring scents pollinate the breeze
returning with the stars and planets,
caressing like spring rain
tickling green moss.

The lifted door of the piano mirrors open faces
gathered to hear his play.


(2/11/13 & 3/5/13)

Colors

Colors

Some beauties, sweet and fleet,
like the happy bird on the branch by the window,
you cannot catch them.
To cage is to kill them.
Some beauties you have to let go.

The colors of a song are so bright
and soft, my dazzled eyes cannot see what
only my heart can feel.
The muse of the poet is kindly cool.
Her visits are passing.

Some lovers, warm and dear,
like the singing bird on the tree by the fence,
you cannot keep them.
To catch is to hurt them.
Some lovers you need to let go.

The years of a life are so bright
and swift, my thoughts cannot catch what
barely memories can hold.
The love of a friend is a godly grace.
His visits are treasure.


(5/3/2012)

Springtime of Love (Song Demo)

I wrote this short song a couple of years ago and recently decided to record a demo version for you here.

Cracks

Cracks

We are held upright by cracks in the sidewalk,
Steady-footed and balanced on uneven turf.
We find our way through dizzy heights and rough waters.
Life is a journey, so never stay put.

We are perfected by embracing our flaws,
And faultless admitting that we can be wrong.
Eternal, our lives are as we live for each day,
Truth, beauty, and love: know these and be strong.


(1/5/2011)

Father's Days

Father's Days

We used to come here --

my family, aunts and uncles,

cousins, two grandpas, often,

and grandmas, too --

to this park of five acres,

oaks and grass, thick growth

of guarded green between a small bridge

and a bend in the little muddy creek

it bears the road across.

A wooden sign remembers for others

how a pioneer woman's family gave

this parcel, set apart anciently

from the old homestead of Trail folk.

I've heard it is here my mother's mother's

family used to gather in the 50s and 60s,

big family reunions of cousins, uncles,

aunts, grand-ones, babies, too,

coming to this park because

their family had lived in these parts once as well.

When I was a kid we'd gather here

each Father's Day in the sun of June,

western Oregon, amid farmers' fields,

grassy places and empty dirt tilled

just off the highway.

I used to love the way Grandma cooked chicken,

and sometimes baked a bunt.

I remember fruit and salads, too.

It was the only time I ever

ate those salty chicken-flavor crackers.

All of us would eat food spread over

the picnic bench nearest the park entrance,

a big enough space for us kids.

No table here now, I can't find

even a spot of raw gravel where it

must have been dragged away from: only grass

in late afternoon sun

shines callow here.

Someone used to string up a high net across

this dip in the grassy glade, and we'd

play at badminton, batting the plastic-feathered

little odd white bird thing back and forth,

overhead, sun in our eyes, on long narrow rackets.

Such free fun we enjoyed.

Or we'd throw a frisbee far across

between us on the open air, dry gopher-pitted spread.

Often we'd miss the mark or the wind

wheeled the discus high up onto tree branches,

clung there for our comic exertions.

Far across that mere five acres we trod later on,

led through the rough wilderness to see other kids

splashing on the muddy shore hidden and

shaded by the tumbled trunks and sticking

plant life -- burrs and weeds and blackberry mazes.

I don't know why we never brought

swim trunks, never waded in with the

older kids, little kids, sometimes a dog.

I might have been a little afraid of it all.

The minnows fish the cool flow now, over

rusted banks marked by fresh foot- and paw-prints.

I spot the hole some kids dug at

just today, their aimless play

schemed and forgotten.

The still July sun shimmers the shallow,

spread out with subtle forever movements.

Minnows and mud, I take some pictures;

peacefulness greets me openly,

memories rustle the trees and dirt banks.

The old oak stands where we used to climb --

the one I'd remembered, plus the second I'd forgotten,

still gnarled, still growing fat.

Perusing the quiet scene of so many years' past

pleasant days, the whole place feels so small now,

and so quiet.

(7/30/2010)

(See more photos on flickr.)

Not My Better Self

Not My Better Self

I fear and I doubt, and

I just feel so tired,

So weak—too weak,

Too flawed,

Too small,

Too slow,

Too late,

Too afraid, and so

I am not my better self.

But some time I may

Sneak past my small cares and

Find out a new beauty to my life, and

I am grateful again,

And growing.

(3/25/2010)

Walking (2008)

Walking

Rough twigs and sharp rocks poke my

feet as they walk. "Why can't the whole

path be clear and cool with soft sand

and fresh grass?" I ask. The sadness

in my heart echos fear and danger of

losing my way. A single daisy faces blue sky.

I want to run.

(8/5/2008)

The Sky (1997-ish)

The Sky

There must be something great

'bout that place we call the sky

where wispy rainbows hang

and graceful eagles fly.

There must be something grand

where colossus mountains grow.

There every tree doth reach

and from there all rivers flow.

There must be something mighty

that holds the great sun high

to raise it in the morning

and lay it low 'fore nigh.

There must be something special

in the space over the trees

that cheers our waking moment

and fills our pleasant dreams.

There must be something gracious

above the seas and land,

with billowed harlequin face

and warm extending hand.

There must be something powerful

that sparks great light and flame

and belches forth a blast

that makes our greatest tame.

And where'd we be today

without the great big sky?

Without its loving rain?

Without its twinkling eye?

But no, it's worse than that

for if the sky should fall

we'd have no lives to live:

No, nothing here at all.

There must be something good

that makes us want to learn

and makes us want to fly,

and that our souls do yearn.

(1997, 2/27/2010)

I hadn't posted anything new here for over a month, so I decided to share an older poem again today. Life has been busy for me lately, in good ways! I hope this poem captures some sense of growth and the awakening of springtime. I've dated it originally to 1997 because that is the date on the computer file I have, but I think I may have written a version of it a few years earlier and expanded it in 1997.

The Green Dragon Visits

The Green Dragon Visits

A guest stopped at my East window this morning,

Wearing green stripes.

With wide eyes he stared, and

Didn't say a word.

So suddenly arrived,

So sudden he moved on.

(9/13/2009)

I love

I love

I love

looking up through the trees

how the leaves change the sky

while little impatiens grow by the porch

the kind breeze touches my bare skin

and old friends ask how I am.

I love

going out so I can come back

how the Saturday afternoon sun

makes angels of it all.

(8/22/2009)

Tiger Lilies

My tiger lilies are blooming right now. They come out and do their thing only once a year, and they don't last long.

I love their vibrant colors, tight curves, and bold spots. They are aptly named.

This is their time: they signal the second half of summer.

It feels to me like it's been an especially warm summer this year. The sun has been nice, but it would also be nice to get away to someplace cooler, like the coast. I think that's what hot days are best suited for – time to move, time for a change. This month I'm packing and moving out of my house, into an apartment or rental – a very big change for me. Cooler days will be welcome.

Maybe my new place will have lilies, too.

May

May

The meadow lies flat on its

back between homes and roads.

Green whiskers and fat little

trees laze in the May sun.

Not a bee's flower touches this

tall grass in its sweet repose.

(5/9/2009)

time of daffodils

E. E. Cummings wrote a poem I like in which he uses flowers to illustrate the dimensions of experience relating to time: time as change, remembrance, decision points, purpose in life, a sense of identity.

Right now I have patches of beautiful daffodils in front of my house. I planted their bulbs there several years ago, and today I get to enjoy them and share them with whoever may walk by.

"The goal of living is to grow." I reflect a lot on what I will do next. Where will I live after I leave this house behind? Do I want to take some of the flowers with me, or leave them? If I came back years later would I be sad to see them all pulled up and replaced with something else? Change can be really jarring, especially when it is something not in my control, not of my choosing. Do I really have control of anything, or is this notion just an illusion? People and relationships change. I change.

"The goal of living is to grow." And forgetting is as much a part of life as remembering. What will I forget about this place after I leave? Will I be able to forget some of the hurts that make me so timid to risk judgment and rejection?

When I leave here I probably would not have much reason to come back. But I would always be curious about what then happened to the things and people I leave behind.

I love the daffodils...

I like that corny little camp song. And I like the springtime... I've started my allergy medication as of a couple of weeks ago. No major problems yet. The jasmine in our neighbors' yards smells really amazing, again. It's like an old woman's perfume, strong and sweet.

The crocuses in the front yard emerged a couple of weeks ago and are still doing well. I am a tad disappointed to see gaps, though – many bulbs did not come back this year, perhaps because of spraying or too wet of soil in those spots. It's nice to have flowers come back every year. These little guys have been pretty low maintenance since we got them a few years ago.

Just this past week or so the daffodils have started to open. So bright and cheery! :)

As usual for March the weather has been unstable, changeable, and generally moist. We had a bit of a storm here the other morning. It brought in some rain water through a leak in one of the downstairs windows. We'll have to get that re-caulked when it dries out a bit more.

Days like today when it is chilly but the sun is just peaking out, I feel like summer is almost here. But it is nice for it to be mild and a bit wet for a while: the flowers appreciate the rain. :)

Tears and Rain

I enjoy James Blunt's music very much. I recently (March 2008) went back to iTunes to look for songs by him I didn't own yet, and decided to try out "Tears and Rain" from his first album, "Back to Bedlam." This isn't my favorite song, but it raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

I had posted here a video I'd found on YouTube, but it has since been marked private, so I can't share it with everyone now. So instead I'll share some brief reflections on the music and meaning I find in this song.

I love how the song opens with gentle acoustic guitar strumming. James' voice has a lovely, expressive quality. In this song he uses a tone that is very sorrowful, like weeping. How perfectly he sings this melancholy tune!

My favorite line is "How I wish I could walk through the door to my mind; / Hold memory close at hand, / Help me to understand the years." Memory and imagination are a great gift for turning over experience and learning from what has come before. How tempting it can be to feel like one could live there, inside an idea, inside an instant from the past! Perhaps it is well that we can't literally step through this door.